Forgiven
by RhondaStar
Summary: Directly follows season 6, episode 5. Charles can't sleep following the events of the evening and Elsie has a few things to get off her chest too.


_My response to what happened Chelsie-wise over the last couple of episodes. Picks up on the night of Robert's operation aka the end of episode 5. First time I've written canon in a while. Thanks to HMW for checking it through ;-)_

* * *

 **Forgiven**

It was the sound of Charles throwing up in the middle of the night that woke her. He'd been restless all evening, keeping her awake as he'd turned this way and that - no doubt in some way traumatised by what he'd witnessed - the great mass of a man pulling at the bedsheets whenever he moved. This bed-sharing was taking some getting used to.

She'd kept her eyes closed. Had pretended she was asleep as she listened to him retch, to the running of water and the sound of him brushing his teeth. He wouldn't want her to go in, she knew that.

She was still angry with him, truth be told. Yes, he'd annoyed her at dinner the other night but it was to be expected. They were both used to somebody else doing the cooking for them over the past thirty years, and she wasn't his mother, and she was certainly no Mrs Patmore. So, she'd let the comments slide.

But to embarrass her in front of her staff? She'd always felt his equal, now she wasn't sure what she was. She felt smaller, somehow, little in the staff's eyes. She imagined Daisy inadvertently blurting out what he'd said and then the whole staff knowing of her inadequacies as a wife. Perhaps he didn't mean to be cruel, no, she knew he would never mean to be. But she thought they'd moved forward, thought that he was softening, trying to understand how women felt – how she felt. And then this. It was like going backwards.

And she was still raw over the fact she wasn't even using his name.

She wondered if this was what it would always be like. Marriage. Her feeling awkward and wrong-footed, biting her tongue and holding back sharp comments when she really wanted to tell him exactly what she thought/felt/believed. Yet now she couldn't. She knew her place. She just never imagined being _Mrs Carson_ such a harsh learning curve.

In some ways it was easier being alone, independent. She'd made her own decisions all her life, now a man was making them for her, and that feeling sat uncomfortably with her.

That made it all sound horrid and it wasn't. Of course not. He was the kindest, warmest soul. And he so wanted to take care of her. Scarborough and the two of them alone had been sublime. Walking endlessly, afternoon tea in little cafes along the seafront, talking and listening, learning about each other. And then after the first two days, late afternoons back in their room, snuggling under the bedclothes and discovering new things about the other. Things she thought she'd be embarrassed by, but had turned out to be truly wonderful. How decadent that seemed now, lying in bed with him, wrapped in his arms as he dozed beside her and she watched as the milky afternoon light slipped into evening.

Tonight had been rather different. He'd clutched her to him with such urgency when he'd come to bed, pressed her against his chest as if to remind himself that she were real, alive, his. And then in a quick movement her nightgown was gone and he was pushing down his pyjama bottoms and rolling between her legs without the usual preamble that took place. No gentle kisses to her neck, the way he liked to marvel at how her breasts fit into his hands. No. This was all different. Passionate, she would have said, deep and full and hard instantly – as if proving something to himself as well as to her.

She hadn't minded. Not at all. She'd found, rather surprisingly, that she adored being loved by him. And despite her anger with him over the whole 'cooking lessons' thing she still enjoyed his attentions. She didn't always experience the same level of 'joy' though, she wasn't quite sure how to describe it, sometimes she felt complete when it was all over, other times she felt a little deflated, as if she'd missed out on some prize at the end of it all.

And this had been one such time. He'd collapsed on top of her crying her name whilst she was still in the throes of the moment. Pushing away her disappointment she had held him, brushing her hand up and down his back as he'd laid still and quiet gathering his breath.

She must have fallen to sleep because when she woke again Charles was gone and she lying on her side facing the door, staring at the meagre yellow light that came from the bathroom. She squeezed her eyes shut when the light went off and feigned sleep.

He took a few moments coming to bed, slipping beneath the sheets and lying on his back. She'd grown used to the fact that he slept quickly, that his gentle snores would fill their shared bedroom. Only they didn't, he still seemed to be suffering, and as he tugged again at the bedsheets she felt her heart soften towards him.

"Are you alright?" She asked gently.

He seemed surprised by her voice and coughed, "Yes, quite alright."

Oh, dear man. How easily he could make love to her when it fit into a nice little box, if things were structured and organised he was okay. It was the blurred bits in between he struggled with. The thought of opening up to her and sharing his worries probably didn't even cross his mind.

Taking the lead as always she shuffled closer, sliding her hand across his stomach, the fairly scratchy cotton of his pyjama top beneath her palm, the bump of his button against her cheek as she pressed her head against his side. She cuddled him. Like she would cuddle Becky sometimes as lasses when the younger one would have a nightmare.

"You can talk to me, you know."

He huffed a response and she patted his chest with her hand.

"I am your wife, there's nothing wrong in opening up to me."

She felt him press his hand against her bare back, and for the first time she realised she was still naked. Normally she would have slipped her nightgown back on when they'd finished, nipped to the loo and cleaned up before sleep. Ever practical.

There was something rather freeing about being naked with him, something that made her feel like a wife, a _real_ wife, not just somebody who now darned his socks or made his bed or cooked (poorly) his dinner.

"You're bound to be upset," she finally plumped for. "It was shocking…a shocking thing to have witnessed, even Thomas was shaken."

"I'm fine, just tired."

"Yet you can't sleep." She pushed. "You don't sleep alone now Charles…"

She felt his chest expand beneath her cheek as he took a deep breath, "I'm sorry I've kept you awake."

"That's hardly what I meant."

She pushed herself up slightly, slid her fingers down the centre of his chest, dancing over the white, shiny buttons for a second before unhooking each one and pushing his shirt aside.

"Elsie…" His voice was low, she imagined his eyes closed, he was filled with trepadation, still, about who they were together. "Do I make you happy, Charles?"

"You don't have to ask that, you know the answer. I've never been happier." He seemed to hold her tighter. "We have a home."

"We do." She rested her cheek against his now bare chest. "Or we're trying to make one."

"I'd never imagined…" He sucked in a tight breath and she wondered if he might cry. There were scarce times he'd been on the verge of tears – Lady Sybil's death, the night he proposed to her – they were the closest he'd come. "I always thought I'd go first."

She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily, placing a heavy kiss to his chest, over the place she thought his heart.

"Charles. We have to…" She swallowed, inched back from him a little. She had been about to say they needed to change, but _they_ didn't, he did. And she didn't want to force that upon him. Lord knows she knew exactly what she was getting when she married him, it was hardly a surprise. But now they were married, there were things she wanted, things she needed.

"I know, they aren't my family." He said finally and she felt her heart beat. "But I do care for them."

"I know that."

"You're my family."

She nodded, shuffling her head against his skin. He smelled like lemon soap and leftover aftershave. "But you can still be upset. And not be ashamed of that. Not in front of me."

She felt him move slightly and then the pressure of his mouth pressing against the top of her head as his hand squeezed her shoulder.

"I upset you the other day, didn't I?" He asked, and she had to admit to being startled by his words.

"Yes." She admitted, voice shaky. "Yes you did."

"You know, I didn't mean to. I thought to help."

"Mmm…" She rolled from him, onto her back, aware of how her breasts flopped as she did and his eyes on her in the darkness. She tugged the sheet up over her body.

"Tell me." He twisted onto his side, staring at her. "I so often get things wrong, I don't want to get this wrong."

"It was demeaning Charles. Like being chastised as a young kitchen maid who'd made a mistake, not as your wife who felt foolish for disappointing you."

"You never disappoint me."

"You made me feel that I had. And I tried so very hard to please you. To get this all right."

"As am I," he tentatively lifted his hand and placed it on her hip atop of the sheets. "I know I'm not… I'm not easy, it can't be easy living with me."

"Oh, I think that works both ways. And this is so new, so different, for both of us. It's bound to be odd at times, for there to be stumbling blocks. But you can't… just how you made me feel in front of them. I've always felt, well, if not quite your equal then close enough."

"You are."

"No. I'm not. You have rights I don't."

"You touched upon this before and we brushed it away. Thirty years of doing as I say, that was hardly fair Elsie."

"I was angry. I wanted my wedding –,"

" –which you were right over."

"And you wouldn't even call me Elsie." She huffed, childishly she knew. "I didn't feel much like a wife. Or a wife to be. I felt…" she glanced over to him, "I felt like my mother. I felt like my mother the other day in the kitchen, deflated and put down, that was never who I wanted to be. I fought damn hard to get to Downton Charles, and I worked damned hard to be Housekeeper, my role, my reputation is very important to me. And I know you understand that."

"I do. And I am sorry if I made you feel belittled. I would never do that. I would never intentionally hurt you." She watched as he opened his mouth to speak, took a few quick breaths. "I love you, I love you more each day we're together."

"Oh…" She rolled over, facing him, sliding her hand beneath her cheek until she was level beside him on the pillow. "I know you didn't mean to, sometimes you just… you just storm in."

"Like a bumbling old fool."

She lifted one hand to rest on his arm, "My husband, though, whom I love very much."

"I want to get it right, all of it, for you. I so want you to be happy."

"I am. Do you think I'm not?"

His chin dipped slightly, "I'm so happy Elsie. I feel a little like I can't stop smiling. Even though tonight knocked the wind out of my sails somewhat… I feel almost guilty that I'm still happy, that I still have you. I worry so I'll be a disappointment."

"Oh, my dear." Opening her arms she tugged him to her, fell onto her back and cradled his head against her chest. He could frustrate her so, make her angrier than anyone else ever had, and then somehow melt her resolve within three seconds.

For a long time they lay like that, a mass of tangled limbs and warm bodies. She eased his shirt completely off until they lay skin to skin, his mouth placing soft kisses upon her as she stroked his back reassuringly.

"I thought I was watching him die." He finally admitted.

"Yes."

"And I was scared."

"There's no shame in that."

"I wanted to hide in my pantry."

"But you didn't. You were the strength you've always been."

"I needed you. Right there, standing in that dining room watching it unfold, I needed you. Because I fear I've left it all too late."

And so there it was, his _real_ fear.

"What's too late, hmm?" she kissed his head, tangled her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. "Us? This? How can this be too late when it already feels so perfect?"

His mouth moved over her collarbone, tasting her as if for the first time before he shifted his face to hers and kissed her deeply. He tasted of toothpaste and it made her grin into the kiss.

Moving onto his side again she shifted back to face him, her knee between his legs, their arms looped over the other's waist.

"This does feel perfect, being with you, here in this cottage." He said softly, his face nothing more than an outline in the dim light.

"Like home, Charles, it feels like home. And we have to get used to that. And stop trying to make it fit into our old lives, we have to accept it's all changed, as much as we thought it wouldn't. As much as we tried to handle the changes."

"Yes." He reached up to touch her hair, ruffled from their earlier love making. It still seemed something of a luxury to him, to be able to touch her hair, to watch as she wound it into place first thing in a morning. "I am sorry, for embarrassing you."

"I know." She inched her head forward on the pillow, "No doubt we'll upset each other again. Countless times."

"I don't like you being upset with me."

"I don't like the fact I'm going to have to take lessons from Daisy in order to cook, but such is life."

He laughed, despite the undercurrent of awkwardness for both of them. She was so lovely. Much stronger than him, she always had been, _much_ stronger. And more practical too. He tried to hide away his sentimentality but it had always been there, waiting for her to tap away at it.

When she kissed him he felt taken aback, he couldn't remember her initiating their kisses before.

"Elsie," he whispered, pouring himself into their embrace. He never wanted to hurt her, never wanted to upset her, he'd take any amount of bad cooking if it meant he could have this for the rest of his life.

He slid his hand down her body, over the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, the softness of her hip. His palm warm and tender as he encouraged her leg over his. If she were surprised by the move she didn't let on, but then she'd let him guide her so much in these things – not that in reality he was any wiser than her. Not really.

Making love in this way, facing each other, seemed more intense somehow. And she really didn't think that their first time, and the shaking, flushed souls they'd been, could be outdone. He was so close to her like this, as if they were wrapped together in some cocoon of pleasure and intimacy. Her name whispered against her neck, his pledges of love and hers of comfort and support, bodies becoming more in tune every time they did this, hips rolling in rhythm together.

And this time she didn't feel rushed or let down, she felt complete.


End file.
